Like A Lover on Valentine's
by NefarioussNess
Summary: "Look at all of this frivolity, Watson!" Sherlock exclaimed, gesturing to the shop windows with a purposeful wave of his hand. They were cluttered with reds and whites and pinks, a kaleidoscope of frilly hearts and overpriced chocolate.


"Look at all of this frivolity, Watson!" Sherlock exclaimed, gesturing to the shop windows with a purposeful wave of his hand. They were cluttered with reds and whites and pinks, a kaleidoscope of frilly hearts and overpriced chocolate. "A meaningless waste of resources! What use are rose-scented condoms in this economy? Every child born in November knows that they're completely useless!"

"Sherlock," Joan said in a warning tone. "You're drawing attention to yourself."

Sherlock looked around; mothers with disapproving looks on their faces were shuffling their children away from his presence.

"Sorry," he said in a bored way that obviously meant he wasn't sorry at all. "Roses would be a ridiculous notion for lubricated arousal."

Valentine's Day was only a week away, and the decorations in every store in New York had caused Sherlock to be blunter with his opinion than usual. Joan had a hypothesis on the matter, but didn't want to bring it up until it was absolutely necessary; Sherlock might end up shrugging it off once the holiday was over.

But the pained expression on her friend's face had more to do than the Hallmark card nuisance that Valentine's Day had to offer. _Wait for him to bring it up,_ Joan kept telling herself. Besides, there were other matters that could distract Sherlock during this week, such as another string of homicides that were "romantically" themed.

* * *

The killer had left a single red rose in a crystal vase at each of the crime scenes. All of his victims (the total being four so far) were females in their early to late twenties. Brunettes with amber, hazel, or plain brown eyes. Their hearts had been crudely cut out of their chests, leaving a gaping hole with blood splashing out of it. The women were found lying on their apartment floors or on their beds, their eyes wide and glassy. Their hands were nestled on top of their stomachs, cupping a red apple drenched in their own blood.

Joan looked at the bodies, even though she should've had the reflex to turn away. It was unnerving how you could easily become used to seeing a mutilated corpse.

The police were examining the entire apartment of the latest victim, taking photos and marking out the scene with that familiar yellow tape. The victim's girlfriend was shell-shocked; tear tracks were running down her cheeks as she was gently led away by Gregson.

"He was quite a romantic, wasn't he?" Sherlock muttered, his hands deep within his coat pockets. He gave a curt nod towards the rose. "It seems he had a thing for Stockholm syndrome."

Joan blinked. "And how did you come to that conclusion?"

Sherlock pointed at the bloody apple in the woman's hands. "An apple and a rose. Both are _red_. The rose could've easily been a gesture towards… Valentine's Day, with it being the symbol for love. But see how the apple's positioned? Doesn't it remind you of a certain pop culture icon that teenage girls have blindly embraced this past decade?"

Joan rolled her eyes. "You mean _Twilight_?"

Sherlock nodded. "Precisely. Also notice how his—or hers, we shouldn't discriminate here—victims have had pale or ivory skin so far? The brown hair and eyes? Just like the description of Bella's character in those books."

"So you're telling me you took the time to fill up your 'attic' with a romance series?"

Sherlock stared straight on ahead, examining every aspect of the room, neatly avoiding eye contact. "Irene dared me too."

_Oh._

"And what purpose does the rose serve?" Joan asked, redirecting the conversation.

"I already gave you the clues to that one, Watson," Sherlock answered simply.

It only took her a few seconds to work that one out. "_Beauty and the Beast_?" she said in disbelief. "Why would a serial killer place two symbols from two completely different stories here?"

"Because they're insane," said Sherlock. "They seem to have far too much time on their hands as well. They've keenly read into the traumatic psychology of those fictions." Sherlock watched up to the rose, and pulled it out of the vase, and began plucking the petals off one by one. "But also has deep-seated fascination with abusive relationships. _Beauty and the Beast_ dealt with a monstrous brute who imprisons a young woman—who's also brunette, might I add—who miraculously 'changes his ways' and they fall in love. _Twilight_ also deals with an emotionally manipulative monster whom isolates an ignorant young woman—which is _essentially_ like imprisonment—and miraculously the two 'fall in love'. Both relationships are severely unhealthy, and yet the media has the gall to romanticize it."

"So our killer is essentially doing the same," Joan said, finally understanding.

"Exactly," Sherlock said approvingly. "This was no random cutthroat villain we have on our hands. They've specifically targeted these women based on their physical descriptions and youth. They may even have had the aid of a second party, seeing how close these murders were date-wise. This could've been a murder planned specifically for this day."

* * *

Gregson was sceptical, but Bell—ha ha, how morbidly fitting—thought that Sherlock was onto something. But besides their physical descriptions and the set-up of their murders, the women seemingly had no connections to each other, relationship-wise.

Digging into their past work places, Sherlock was able to discover a tiny fraction of a connection. Two of the dead women—Georgia Brown and Aimee Tyson—were co-workers at a law firm three years ago while they were still interns. They both left within six months of each other, as did two of their other co-workers two months later. Gregson brought in the co-workers for questioning. It turned out that one of them—Daniel Kennedy was his name—had been trying to court Aimee Tyson during the time that they worked together. Aimee had told him multiple times that she wasn't interested, that she already had a girlfriend, and that she didn't want to 'fraternize' with someone at her work.

It turned out that Daniel had a history of violence and anger issues. Gregson, after a little more investigating (Kennedy had been charged many times for assault and had a restraining order against him), was convinced that he was their killer, but Sherlock thought otherwise.

"People with irrational bouts of anger tend to be more brutal," Sherlock said, "they're not known to calculate plans ahead of time. The four women's murders were pre-meditated, and with such precision too. I'm sure Daniel Kennedy wouldn't have the patience to expertly carve a human heart out of a chest. Clunky stabbings would be more of his forte."

* * *

The killer ended up being a woman. A librarian—if you could imagine it—named Patricia Wills that worked with the third victim at the university. Her older brother—Luther Wills—was a surgeon, and worked with his sister on murdering the four women. Their hearts were found vacuum-sealed in his freezer in his lavish apartment that he shared… _intimately_ with Patricia.

"A twisted entanglement," Sherlock mused, once they were back at their apartment. Dishes cluttered the sink, but there were still some clean mugs in the cupboards. Joan pulled down two and began to make tea.

When Joan went back into the living room, Sherlock was already asleep. She sighed, and grabbed a blanket off of one of the chairs, draping it across his shoulders. His head was tilted to the side, and his eyes flitted behind closed lids.

When Joan turned away, she could've sworn she heard him mumble, _"Irene."_

* * *

"I got you something."

Joan groaned, turning herself over in her sleep. Sherlock was perched at the end of her bed, holding a large, pink box. Joan reluctantly sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Sherlock shoved the box into her lap, and watched her.

"What's this?" she asked, feeling suspicious. She was used to Sherlock barging into her room unannounced. He was like a small child that woke you up because he needed attention or was hungry or both.

"It's… that day," Sherlock said, eyes fixed on her. They were wide and unblinking. "I'm not what you would called a romantic, but this is a sign of my appreciation. That last case went extraordinarily smoother with your keen eye and assistance."

"Are you saying that you would've been stumped without my help?"

Sherlock stared blankly at her. "I'm not differentiating my wording in order to please your ego, Watson. That's what the contents of the box are for."

Joan rolled her eyes, but carefully opened up the lid. Inside were half a dozen cupcakes that were covered in thick, pink frosting and had bloody hearts—like the actual pumping organ, and not those cutesy kiddy ones—designed in dark red on top.

_This is very you,_ Joan thought. She closed the lid, and placed the cupcakes on her nightstand. Sherlock was still watching her, as if awaiting her reaction.

"That was… very sweet of you," Joan said, and she noticed how her friend's shoulders seemed to sag in relief. Joan leaned to the side, and pulled open her nightstand's drawer. She pulled out a large bag of M&M's, and handed them to him.

"I saw you eyeing those the other day while we were working," she said.

Sherlock clutched them, and looked over at Joan. "Fear not, Watson," he said, "these will not overcome me with a new addiction. I'm positive these will last throughout the day."

"Good," Joan nodded. She nodded towards the door. "They can keep you occupied for a few more hours while I sleep."

"Of course," Sherlock said, reluctantly getting up. He walked over to the door, and closed it shut. Joan sighed, and flopped down, her head resting on her pillow. She looked over at the pink box, and felt a small smile form on her lips.


End file.
